


Pulse

by simplyspn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, First Kiss, First Time, Gerridebs Situation, Happy Ending, John gets hurt, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Near Death Experience, Sherlock Doesn't Handle It Well, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyspn/pseuds/simplyspn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hurt working on a case and Sherlock blurts his feelings in his desperation to wake him up. After his recovery, Sherlock has an obsession with making sure John is alive...by checking his pulse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panic

The world seemed to move in slow motion as a searing pain ripped through John’s abdomen. For a moment, he didn’t know what had happened. The pain spread quickly, encompassing the entirety of his midsection. He could no longer stand. It was as if every muscle in his body had suddenly turned to liquid.

 

The doctor fell to his knees. He didn’t even register the pain of his kneecaps hitting the concrete flooring beneath him.

 

All Sherlock could do for a painstakingly long moment was stare in raw horror and overwhelming fear.

 

“JOHN!”

 

His voice bounced off the walls of the abandoned warehouse, echoing too loudly in his own ears. He forced himself to look away from his doctor, his companion, his best friend, to the person who had shot him. The face of the murderer the duo had been chasing for the last three months was grinning proudly, stone cold eyes boring deep into Sherlock.

 

He had threatened to take away what Sherlock loved the most. Sherlock countered by telling him that he, in fact, didn’t love anything.

 

He thought that he hid his feelings for John quite well – after all, it had been seven years, and John hadn’t noticed. It was unlikely that a complete stranger would notice, especially only seeing them together in a professional setting.

 

He had been wrong. Somehow, the man had figured out John’s true worth to Sherlock. He figured out that no one in the world meant more to him than John Watson, and because of that, John was now lying in a growing pool of red.

 

The detective’s eyes went back to the heap of man on the floor when a strangled gasp for breath filled the building. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Not John. Never John._

 

_Anyone but John._

_Not my John._

Sherlock levelled his gun, centring it with the criminal’s chest.

 

“By the time you pull that trigger, Holmes, I can get another round into him. Straight through his heart, if I’m lucky.”

 

He didn’t need to weigh his options, not this time. He wasn’t going to gamble when it came to John’s life. He lowered his gun, and the man fled down the backstairs of the warehouse, disappearing into the night.

 

Sherlock was dialling Lestrade as he ran to John, already removing his coat and scarf. He fell to his knees beside the blond, rendered speechless for a moment by the amount of blood that had already escaped John’s body. John was awake, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling, blinking rapidly to keep sweat out of his eyes.

 

“Lestrade! LESTRADE! John – there’s so much blood. He’s been shot. I-I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW!” He barked into the phone, voice cracking as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

 

“Alright, alright. We’re on our way. Keep him talking! Try to stop the bleeding. I’m coming, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock tossed the phone to the side, not caring that he likely shattered it. It didn’t matter. Nothing in the world mattered but John.

 

The contrast of bright blood against pale hands was startling. Sherlock pressed against the wound, whining desperately when the thick substance seeped through his fingers. “John..John! No. No, this is what you do! _You’re_ the doctor,” he sobbed, tears finally escaping his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. “Tell me what to do! I don’t know what I’m doing! JOHN!” He screamed, pressing the heel of his hand harder into the open wound.

 

John cried out in pain.

 

Sherlock gasped and pulled back. John’s lips were moving, trying to speak. It took him a moment to find his voice. “N-no. Sh-Sh-Sher-lo-lock. D-do it ag-again.”

 

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly. Even now, in a pool of his own blood, with minutes left to live, John knew what was running through Sherlock’s min.

 

“H-hurts but k-k-keeps blood i-in-ins-inside.” He arched off of the concrete flooring, which sent a breath-taking amount of red flowing down John’s sides. Sherlock scurried toward John. He would not lose his blogger. He had no purpose without him – the cases, the deductions, the showing off – without John, it all meant nothing.

 

Sherlock pressed the heel of one hand down into the wound again, causing John to cry out once more. “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.” He repeated his apology, over and over, sincerity thick in his voice. He used his other hand to rip the buttons off of John’s shirt. He was thankful he didn’t wear a jumper today. He needed to assess the damage, deduce what organs had been hit – what John’s chances were.

 

Curls were matted to his forehead with sweat by the time he got the shirt opened and was able to see where John had been hit – and by his deductions, quite a few organs had been hit. The most concerning of which were the spleen, liver and kidney.

 

It was then that Sherlock noticed that John had gone almost completely still. His muscles weren’t nearly as tense, he wasn’t gasping for air. He wasn’t doing… _anything._

 

“JOHN! John! No, no, no, no…” He draped himself over his doctor, tapping at his cheek; gently at first, but getting a bit harder each time with desperation.

 

“Please, John. Please. For me. One more miracle…” He begged, tears falling from his eyes onto John’s cheeks, now reddening from Sherlock’s hands. “One more miracle, John. Please. I love you. _I love you._ I’ve loved you from the very beginning” He absentmindedly wiped his eyes to clear his vision, leaving a smear of John’s blood on his cheek.

 

As he spoke, he pressed two fingers to John’s neck – he had a pulse. It was weak, _God_ it was weak. But it was there. He was alive.

 

His hands rushed back to the wound, doing everything in his power to keep the remainder of John’s blood in his body. “I’ve loved you since Angelo’s, since you blindly followed me into a dangerous situation.” He could hear the sirens now, and let out a shaky breath which only sent another river of tears from his eyes.

 

“I’m _in love_ with you John. God help me, I’m in love with you. Please, don’t die on me. Don’t leave me before I get the chance to tell you, please. You know how many regrets I have…if I don’t get to tell you, this will be my biggest regret to date. Please, John. You have given me so many chances, I’m just asking for one more…one more…”

 

Strong, gentle hands were pulling him away. Sherlock fought. He fought those hands harder than he had fought anything in his life – those hands, however gentle they may be, were taking him away from _John._ He turned, ready to pounce at whoever had taken him away, even for just a second – but it was Lestrade. A friendly face in all of the chaos.

 

And with him, came the medics. People that could _actually_ help John. They could do more than simply _keep the blood in his body._

 

“Oi, mate. You’re covered…” It took Sherlock a moment to realise what Greg was talking about. He was covered in blood. In _John’s_ blood. His white button-down was now soaked through. His hands were covered. He had smears on his neck and face. Even his trousers were sopping from where he was knelt down in the growing pool in his desperate attempt.

 

Sherlock had gone numb. He had thought it was such a ridiculous expression before. Numb. How was it possible for a person’s entire body to just _stop feeling_ because something so detrimental had happened? But now, he understood. He didn’t feel _anything,_ and his mind was silent of anything that wasn’t completely _John._

 

He watched silently as John was loaded onto a gurney. He caught a glimpse of his face. The once beautiful, sand-coloured skin was now ashen and ghostly. Sherlock thought he might be sick. He had seen far too many corpses, and John was beginning to look more dead than alive. He didn’t want to add John’s name to the list of _murder victims_ he had seen.

 

But this case he _would_ solve.

 

And this man, he _would_ kill.

 

As John was wheeled past where he and Lestrade stood, trying desperately to stay out of the way, Sherlock was able to pick up bits of what was being said: ‘ _BP is too low’ ‘Heart rate is dropping!’ ‘He’ll need a blood transfusion’_

That was enough to snap Sherlock out of his fear-induced haze. He stepped forward, and Greg wrapped a hand around his wrist. He pulled away instantly, but didn’t move further. “His blood. He’s type B Positive. He’s allergic to Penicillin and Sulphur and he’s left handed. He’ll want the IV in his right hand…” The medic paused and looked at him, then nodded his understanding before instructing the driver to tell the hospital they would be needing B Positive blood upon their arrival.

 

Less than thirty seconds after that, they were gone, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade standing.

 

“I-I need to be with him, Greg.” Sherlock couldn’t even be bothered to come up with a wrong name for him at the moment.

 

“I heard. What you said to him, I mean. I’ll take you, come on.”

 

Sherlock ran to the car, and was thankful when Lestrade turned on the sirens. They wouldn’t be waiting in traffic. They would get to the hospital right behind the ambulance and he would be waiting for John every step of the way, he would know everything that was happening.

 

And, hopefully, John would make it through this.

 

“Is-is he going to be okay?” Sherlock croaked, his voice sounding strangled and forced, even to his own ears.

 

Greg hesitated. The detective could hear his intake of breath as he tried to find a way to soften his words; it wasn’t hard to tell that there was no certainty that John would be _okay._ Even if he survived, Sherlock knew John’s PTSD would be back at full force. But he didn’t mind staying up. He would suffer thousands of sleepless nights if it meant John would survive this.

 

“I’m not going to lie, Sherlock. There was _a lot_ of blood there. But we both know John is a fighter. He’s been through this once before, in the war and all that. With that, he even got an infection! No one thought he would survive that either, and yet he did. Came back to London, met you, and had gotten on just _fine._ It may not look good now, but that man is full of surprises.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know if it was the words he said, or simply hearing a friendly voice, but he felt calmer. Greg didn’t bother to park the car when they arrived at the hospital. Instead, he pulled up in front of Trauma, left the lights on, and followed Sherlock inside.

 

The woman sitting behind the desk was in her early-fifties. Before he even reached the desk, Sherlock had figured out her entire life story, ammunition to use against her in case things didn’t go his way. Someone, _everyone,_ should be feeling the pain he felt.

 

“John Watson.” He said breathlessly, slamming his hands down onto the countertop. The woman was so caught up on the blood that covered the detective, that she didn’t respond. Sherlock slammed his hands down again. “JOHN HAMISH WATSON. WHERE IS HE?!”

 

Fingernails that were long overdue for a manicure rushed across the keyboard. The woman seemed to find his name, and opened her mouth as if she were going to tell Sherlock where he was, then abruptly stopped.

 

“ – Are you a spouse or immediate family member?” She asked.

 

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled his badge out, flashing it at the woman. “It’s an official matter. The man has been _shot._ I’m sure it says that somewhere in his admittance paperwork. I need all the information I can get. Now. So we can catch this man, preferably _before_ he puts a hole in someone else.”

 

The woman paled as Greg spoke. “He’s in surgery.”

 

OOo

 

Minutes turned to hours as Sherlock waited for news, _any_ news, of John’s condition. Every time he asked, he was informed that he was still in surgery. What did that mean? Had something gone wrong? Did it always take this long? Greg had been a calming influence. He had left for a few minutes to park the car, and again to take a call from the Yard. In that amount of time, Sherlock had managed to completely _destroy_ the people who dared to approach him with anything that wasn’t concerning John.

 

He was inflicting the pain he felt on the rest of the world.

 

But now, all he could do was pace and sit and drink this swill that someone had the nerve to call _coffee._ John wouldn’t like this coffee either, but John would smile and thank the person for making it. John would be kind. John. John. _John._

 

He wordlessly handed over the throwaway cup. Greg automatically took it. This had been the routine for the past six hours – Sherlock would give Greg whatever he was holding before he went to interrogate about John. But this time, before Sherlock could get to his feet, a doctor in dark blue scrubs approached.

 

For a moment, Sherlock was ready to tear him down, too. Then, he realised it was _John’s_ doctor. The man that had held John’s life in his hands for the past six hours.

 

“John Watson?” The doctor asked. Sherlock nodded and stood, Greg following close behind.

 

“Yes. How is he?” Sherlock asked, hope and fear in his voice.

 

“Well, he’s alive.” Sherlock sighed in relief, able to finally breathe as the doctor continued. “We lost him twice on the table. The bullet pierced his liver and spleen, but completely destroyed his kidney. We had to remove it. He’s lucky. Very lucky. He’s in intensive care now, but I think he’ll make a full recovery.” He paused, his eyes bouncing from Greg to Sherlock. “Keep him safe. I don’t know if he’ll survive a third bullet.” He nodded and turned, heading back toward the double doors.

 

“Wait!” Sherlock didn’t like the sound of his own voice. Desperation. _Need for someone else’s help._ “Can I see him?”

 

The doctor hesitated once again. “Usually, I don’t let anyone see patients after any type of major procedure. But…” it was obvious, even to Greg, that he knew who both Sherlock and John were. Probably an avid reader of John’s blogs. “I know it’s an official police matter, and time is of the essence. He’s on the fourth floor. 4117.”

 

Sherlock was running toward the elevators as fast as his long legs would carry him.

 

oOo

 

It took exactly 3 hours and 9 minutes from the time Sherlock walked in the room for John to wake up. Which meant it had been 9 hours and 46 minutes since the moment John had been shot, and Sherlock had felt like his breathing had been restricted.

 

But when those gorgeous, oceanic blue hues met his, he could finally fill his lungs with air.

 

“John.” He said quietly. He had pulled the chair up to the side of the bed, and nestled his head on the mattress, by John’s hand. His own hand was slipped underneath his doctor’s; it was one of the small touches he allowed himself to have. He lifted his head and blinked a few times, willing the world into focus.

 

“You’re here.” John’s voice wasn’t his own, raw and foreign from having a tube down his throat for so long. Sherlock was painfully aware of John’s eyes on him, studying him.

 

“Of course I’m here. I wasn’t going to _leave_ after you’ve been shot.” Sherlock swallowed thickly, forcing away the tears. Tears of relief – _John is alive and he is talking._

 

“You’re covered in blood…”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times in confusion. Of course he was covered in blood. Did John expect him to…oh.

 

“Yes. I-I have been here since it happened, and I didn’t get a chance to change. I…I didn’t wash it off of my skin because…it’s yours…” he tried to explain, to get what he was thinking and feeling into words, hoping John would understand. “If…something happened…I just wanted to have this, something to remind me, I guess…something _on_ me. At least for a little while.” Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes scanning his blood-covered hands.

 

He was glad he had told Lestrade to go home and sleep. He didn’t want to have this conversation with him here.

 

He was still searching for something to say. The only sound in the room was the steady beeping of the monitor reminding Sherlock that _yes,_ John is alive.

 

“I heard you.” John’s voice. Sherlock blinked and looked up at him. “Back in the warehouse. I was too weak to speak, or even react. But I heard you. When you said you love me.”

 

Sherlock’s face turned red in an instant, leaving the most brilliant man in England stuttering and searching for words that just wouldn’t come.

 

“I-I-, John-, I mean-, I just-, I needed-“

 

John shook his head, a smile tugging at chapped lips. “I love you too, Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock stood wide-eyed, replaying the words in his mind, committing it to memory, locking it away in the Mind Palace for all of eternity. He deleted something else, just to ensure that this very important moment would be safe forever. This moment he had been waiting for, for so long. This moment he thought sure would never happen.

 

“Come here.” John again, pulling Sherlock from his mind, like always. Bringing him back, keeping him safe in the real world. Sherlock moved so he was closer to John, his head tucked into his side, but not quite touching him completely. He was still able to smell him and feel him. John draped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock welcomed the added weight. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep.

 


	2. Healing

It had been three months since John was released from the hospital. Three months of bandage changes and John’s stiff movements from the pain. Three months of appointments at the surgery just to make sure things were healing properly, mostly because of Sherlock’s insistence.

 

With so much going towards making sure John was taken care of, and so much of Sherlock’s attention going towards tracking down the man that hurt John, they haven’t done anything to progress their relationship past what had been said in the hospital that night. But so many people had already thought they were in a relationship before; maybe their dynamic wouldn’t change all that much.

 

Sherlock knew that there would be nightmares because of the shooting – he just didn’t know they would be his.

 

Most nights, he would wake himself with his own cries. In his dream, he doesn’t get to John in time. John doesn’t make it. Sherlock is left holding his body, sobbing to Greg and Molly to _fix him_ , as if they have the secret to bringing him back to life. And when they can’t, and the reality that John is gone forever sinks in, Sherlock wakes up screaming.

 

Tonight’s dream is the same.

 

He jolts awake with a scream of John’s name, dark curls matted to his forehead, tears stinging to his eyes, sweat dampening his skin.

 

He pushes the blankets off his body and slides out of bed. Silently, he exits his room and climbs the stairs to John’s. Seeing John, asleep, alive, safe at Baker Street, usually calms Sherlock down. He’s spent countless nights in the last three months standing in this room while John slept, watching his chest move with each breath, thankful for each lungful of air he had been granted.

 

He slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, quietly stepping inside. The room was dark aside from the warm glow of a streetlight that poured through the window. Sherlock scurried over to the bedside, finding his blogger on his back, one arm draped across his stomach, the other thrown over his head. The blankets had all been kicked to the foot of the bed.

 

Sherlock stood, counting each rise and fall of his chest. _49….50…51…_

 

“Sherlock?” A sleepy voice broke through the silence. Sherlock swallowed.

 

“Um…yes, John?” He asked quietly. John pulled himself up on his elbows and rolled over with a cringe to turn on the lamp, making them both squint.

 

“What are you doing in here? Everything okay?” As his eyes adjusted to the light and he was able to get a good look at Sherlock – hair still dishevelled from sleep, pyjamas wrinkled, no dressing gown, face flushed – he answered his own question. “What’s wrong?”

 

Seven different excuses ran through Sherlock’s mind, but he was too tired to lie. “Bad dream. I wanted to make sure you were alive…I mean…okay…”

 

John’s eyes softened as he reached his hand out to Sherlock, wrist turned up. Sherlock looked from his wrist to his eyes. John nodded once, and Sherlock took it, pressing against the vein to feel his pulse, to feel the blood rushing through his veins, to feel that _he was very much alive._

 

“Come here, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Sherlock stepped forward. John reached out and carefully pulled him closer, until he sat down on the bed. “I’m alive. I’m okay, I promise. _You_ are the reason I’m alive. If you hadn’t acted as quickly as you did, I would have bled out in seconds.” He stated honestly. Sherlock had grabbed onto John’s wrist again and was still feeling his pulse.

 

Then, he moved his wrist up to his lips, and kissed it gently.

 

The gesture left John breathless.

 

All John could do was stare at him. Their eyes met as Sherlock’s lips brushed over his pulse again. It was so _intimate_ that John could barely wrap his mind around it.

 

“I thought I lost you, John. I thought…I would never feel this again…” He reached out for John’s other wrist. He willingly surrendered it. Sherlock brought it to his lips and kissed it as well, lingering for a few moments so he could feel the steady beat of his pulse against his lips.

 

It was only natural for John to tilt his head to the side, inviting him to feel an even stronger pulse.

 

“I thought that I had lost you, without ever telling you how I feel about you.” Sherlock gladly accepted the invitation. He leaned over and pressed his lips against John’s neck, on his pulse. He kissed down the source of life, silently thanking it for still working, for keeping John alive for him.

 

John let out a breathy moan.

 

Sherlock pulled back slowly, his gaze finding John’s. The detective’s heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest when John began to lean forward. Sherlock followed his lead.

 

John’s lips were soft, almost _plush_ , against his own. On the surface, the doctor tasted of wintergreen toothpaste and a little bit like sleep, with a few remnants of chow mein. But beneath that was the taste of _John._ It was more than Sherlock could have ever imagined. He couldn’t even begin to describe what he tasted like, but it was uniquely and completely _John Hamish Watson._

 

John’s tongue traced across Sherlock’s lips, sending chills down Sherlock’s spine. He moved his hand, brushing it against John’s wrist again, feeling his pulse – it had definitely accelerated since he had touched it only moments ago.

 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was breathless as he broke the kiss, his cheeks flushed. Sherlock was still holding his wrist captive, feeling the pulse, feeling his life. He leaned forward again, kissing the more prominent pulse in his neck.

 

John fell back against the bed, tugging Sherlock along with him. Sherlock pressed his lips to his neck once more, this time letting them linger like he had on his wrist. John seemed to like this. He writhed his body, but did everything in his powered to keep his neck still for Sherlock.

 

In an attempt to calm John, Sherlock put his hand on John’s hip, using his thumb to stroke the bone gently, his lips still memorising the feel of his pulse. Sherlock could feel John’s shuddered breath. John took his free hand, and placed it on Sherlock’s wrist.

 

“Let me show you how alive I am, Sherlock…” He gently moved Sherlock’s hand from his hip to the front of his pyjama bottoms, his cock hard and aching.

 

Sherlock faltered in the memorisation of John’s pulse. He pulled back from his neck just a little to look at him. He made no attempt to move his hand from where John had placed it. Instead, he started to massage him gently, palming him through the material. John groaned out, hips rising off the mattress, into Sherlock’s touch. “Sherlock…take them off. Please…”

 

Sherlock nodded, but first wanted to do away with his shirt. It was covering far too much. Long fingers undid small buttons slowly. He didn’t rush this. He wanted to cherish every moment; this was the first time seeing John like this, after all.

 

He gently pushed the material off his shoulders, and tossed it to the side. John blushed and quickly looked away as Sherlock looked down at his exposed torso. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to figure out what was wrong.

 

“You are beautiful, John Watson” he leaned forward, brushing his lips against the scar on his shoulder, letting them drag over every bit of it. This scar, the one that helped bring them together. “You came to me, because you were invalided out of the army. You were invalided out of the army, because of this.” He pressed another kiss to it, running his fingers down the smooth scar tissue.

 

He kissed his way down John’s body, stopping at his new scar. The scar was healed for the most part. John pain came from damage done inside his body. Still, Sherlock was careful when he dragged his lips over it, kissing each inch. “And this?” he nuzzled into it gently, letting his nose run along the lung of the incision before kissing down that scar as well. “This almost took you from me. But this also made me confess my love for you. I was hoping, more than anything, it would bring you back to me.”

 

When Sherlock looked up and met John’s eyes again, they were glassy with tears. Before Sherlock had a chance to ask if he had done something wrong, John had silenced him with a kiss. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love every single bit of you.” His lips crashed into Sherlock’s again, rendering Sherlock completely dumb for a moment. He was finally able to make his hands work again, hooking his fingers through John’s pyjama bottoms.

 

He had to break the kiss to pull them down, and was pleased to find that John did not wear pants to bed. His eyes widened at John’s size. He always knew John was large; he had deduced as much from the way he walked, but he never imagined this. It was a challenge he was more than willing to accept.

 

He looked up at John for a moment, his fingers wrapping around his length as he began to stroke him slowly. John groaned quietly, his hips rocking slightly, desperately trying to get more of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock lowered his head and parted his lips, taking the tip of John’s cock into his mouth.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock…” He moaned breathlessly, reaching down to knot his fingers in his hair. Sherlock hummed his appreciation, sending vibrations through John’s cock. John threw his head back against the pillow as he thrust his hips up. Sherlock relaxed his jaw, allowing John to slide more of himself into his mouth.

 

John tugged roughly at Sherlock’s hair, though he was quite careful not to hurt him. Sherlock pulled off of John just a bit, eyes bright as he tried to catch his breath. He continued to stroke him, taking a deep breath as he leaned forward again. His tongue teased the slit slightly, dipping inside. John cried out and arched his back so much that Sherlock had to press his hips down into the bed to be sure he wouldn’t hurt himself.

 

Slowly, he inched John back into his mouth, sucking and stroking at the same time until John’s tip hit the back of his throat. When it did, John groaned. _“Fuck Sherlock…do you not gag?_ God…your _mouth”_ Sherlock let his tongue flatten on the underside of John’s shaft for a moment, before teasingly running along the throbbing vein he had already memorised thoroughly. John couldn’t keep still, his whole body squirming as his orgasm built up inside him.

 

Sherlock reached up to gently massage his perineum, causing a shout of Sherlock’s name to tumble past his lips. Sherlock dared to look up at him, to watch his face as he got close. He was absolutely beautiful, eyebrows brought together in pure pleasure, bottom lip caught between his teeth, the pulse in his neck visibly throbbing. This was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

 

Again, he went as far down on John’s cock as he could, taking his doctor down his throat. This time, his mimicked a swallow, so his throat would contract around his cock.

 

“Bloody hell… _Fucking hell…Sherlock!”_ He groaned, so Sherlock swallowed again. “I-I’m gonna… _Sherlock”_ Sherlock pulled back quickly. He wanted John to come in his mouth, so he could taste him. Sherlock could feel John’s cock swell and spasm against his tongue as he came, spilling his load into his mouth. He continued to suck gently, wanting every last drop that the doctor had to offer.

 

John let go of Sherlock’s hair, completely breathless. Sherlock smiled up at him, and considered redressing him, but decided to just cover him with the blanket instead. “Come here,” John whispered. Sherlock happily obliged, lying beside John on the small bed, their bodies pressed together. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, their eyes meeting.

 

John moved his wrist, resting it on the pillow between them; a silent offering. _Check my pulse whenever you need to know I’m okay. I understand._ Sherlock quickly took his wrist, fingers resting against his veins, feeling the beat, the rhythm, the life flowing through him. _I always need to know you’re okay._

 

“I’m alive, Sherlock” He whispered quietly, though he made no effort to take his wrist away. He never would. Sherlock needed this, and this was one thing John could provide.

 

“I know. I don’t want you to ever leave me. I love you.” He admitted so much with just those words that he felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. The detective, that swore he had never _needed_ anyone, needed John Watson more than anything in the world.

 

“I love you, too. And I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave.”

 

Sherlock nuzzled his face into the scar on John’s shoulder, pressing sloppy little kisses to it. He was still cradling John’s wrist as if it were precious cargo. John smiled, cherishing each time Sherlock’s lips touched his body. Maybe he could learn to love these scars as much as Sherlock did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Send any requests or plots to consultingcurls on tumblr :D Thanks so much for reading!!


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